CREATIVE DRIVE

The newsletter for people who know what's good for them

?

NUMBER 58

If you could do it all over again, would you?

?

Yesterday brought a revelation of sorts; a realization that we tend to want the same things in life. It was the story of a learned man–a man of medicine–who gave up his hard-won career in order to seek and obtain the purity of a simpler existence. His goal, which became clear long after he'd entered the field of surgery, was to be a poetical philosopher. That's a tough one, but certainly it isn't impossible.

It has something to do with education, really. His admission reflected the awareness that knowledge can be bought and certified but that wisdom is free as the wind. You may spend three hard years as a student of law, but the deep absorption of case history won't necessarily prepare you to pass the bar exam. What it does is to teach you to think, which is a beneficial ability. Then, however, it's necessary to think like a lawyer. I have attorneys among my siblings, and I remember listening to the elder of them impart that teaching to the younger. We all think, and we learn. The distinction in that learning is whether we're willing to stretch and adapt. A person who's hungry, humble and inventive–a person who's wise–will embrace the effort and the limitless possibilities it brings.

?

Look at the creative things you do. Are you a specialist or an explorer? Have you been trained, or have you taught yourself, to work in a certain way so that projects can start and complete within a reasonable time? Do you take it slow and easy as you mull ideas and ponder the negative issues that may emerge? Listen, life is short. The ice cream will melt down to crème anglaise unless you dig in and finish it. Your creativity and process are the art, whereas the product of your art is simply that.

I once had the pleasure of talking with a well-known British rock musician whose band had pioneered the use of twin lead guitars. They'd been around for a while before I got into them, but then I went whole hog into their stuff. I listened as deeply and attentively as I could because I didn't want to miss a single nuance. The steady improvement of the vocals, songwriting and production were at least as impressive as the guitars, which spoke in paragraphs. Every aspect of their blues-inflected playing was purposeful and harmonically knowing. I dug it.

So, I thanked the artist for making a healthy chunk of the band's music available for listening without charge. (This was before YouTube, I guess.) I compared it to a couple of other much-loved groups, one of whose music could be heard for a price. "Oh, that's too bad," he said. "And those are great bands, by the way. Still, I just don't think we should be too precious about the music and what we've made. It'll die a slow death unless we allow people to hear it."

It might surprise you to know that some rock musicians are very smart people. I met one who had a degree in biochemistry.

?

We can be tempted to stick with what works, and that habit can be counterproductive. For example, in order to become a composer I dove into the workings of a single program. The product wasn't designed for the production of orchestral or large-ensemble music but was envisaged as a way for people to create loop-based beats. I've tried at least one other beat-oriented program, and it was silly. "There! Look at the song you've created! Now you'll be rich and famous, dude!" I got a message like that after I'd spent ten minutes with it, but in that short time all I'd done was poke around and audition grooves. The program then slapped together what I'd tried and presented it to me as a bona fide achievement. No. I'm sorry, but I had nothing to do with it. I didn't make it, like it or care to remember it.

Instead, I learned to use the other program in ways that were particular to my musical ethos. Every conceivable instrumental sound was there, so, why not? I decided to make the term "composer" a personal description of myself and my goal, and then I established the process of creating a repertoire.

What's the problem with that? Well, it's minor, but it shouldn't be ignored. Although I have in recent weeks endeavored to remake some of the earlier pieces–a task that can be as challenging as the original production–I've done so for the purpose of breaking the mold of my habit-based process. The next step will be to start only with harmonic instruments and leave time-based percussion entirely out of the equation. That will force me to hear those instruments–the cellos, violas and uprights, for instance–in their essence but not simply for depth or color.

?

The process of writing presents those challenges too. If you're going to write one thing, such as a story or an article, why must you write the same thing again? If you create a character who feels alive to you, wouldn't that character face the breadth of emotion, thought and challenge that real life affords? Of course he would. Of course she will.

The way to break from the constraint of a habitual creative process is to admit something: The things you know are not all there is to know. You might study under a respected faculty of music professors, who'll teach you about the ranges and purposes of various instruments. Eventually you'll commit to memory all of those rules, and you'll be set to compose the music such rules can facilitate. Listen to the product, though, and you'll hear something. Listen very closely, now. Do you hear it?

It's the absence of you. It's the void left by the failure to speak with your true voice. You've answered the questions that were given by instructors but not the fundamental question of why you'd want to create music anyway. I mean, it's difficult. The anonymity of your creation is almost assured, but you must feel compelled to bring forth at least a bit of music that's entirely yours. Then you can give it away and create another.

Give it a try the next time you prepare to create. Take what you know you know, and simply forget it. If you write lengthy sentences, don't. If you cook exclusively with Italian herbs, try some of the delightful things that are used in Kashmiri cuisine. If you paint with oils, etch something into a block of plaster instead.

?

A QUICK EXERCISE

I'll give you the bones of a story, but certain details will be left out. So, you can provide them. Every person who tries this will produce something different. Let's go:

?

The air was so cold that everything it touched was left suspended as in death. The breeze, like death, danced gently over the field and taunted the brittle leaves with insinuation and lies. "You will not survive me," it whispered. "No longer will you hinder my mastery of this place." Thus the boy, young though he was, watched from the safety of a cabin at the field's edge. Poor and threatened by malnourishment, particularly ___________________ ______________________________________________________________________, he knew with each __________________________ that the cruel ________________ of winter's _____________ would one day be a ______________________________. There'd be _____________________ again, and ___________________________________________ his way forward. Father had said, "Don't ______________________________________________, boy. You won't _______________________________________________ without a bit of backbone." Henry knew his dad was right, but that didn't __________________________________________ it. There would always be _____________________________________________________________.

?

THANK YOU for reading this issue of Creative Drive. I'll see you next time.

?

Copyright ?2024 by Lawrence Payne. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated or distributed without permission from the author. Neither shall any part hereof be used to train artificial intelligence (AI).